Today I had to shower with cotton-scented hand soap. I smell like a big cotton ball. Mmmmmm.
Yesterday I managed to use the last sliver of real soap till it literally washed away, and I told myself, "Don't forget to get soap today."
Then guess what. GUESS.
And I hate to be the one to point out the emperor has no clothes, but cotton doesn't smell like anything. So what do I really smell like right now? Laundry? I kind of smell like laundry. That's hot. "I was attracted to her when she walked by smelling of a towel. Right then, I knew."
Hey, it was a busy night last night. I got up with Mr. French and I also had the Real Housewives reunion show, which is always the best hour of your life, ever. Always. Every time.
Anyway, do y'all remember Mr. French? Here he is, above, going back into the bar to pay up. Mr. French is always insistent on paying, even though we're just friends. I think it's very gentlemanly. I had, last night, gotten there before him and had already BOUGHT my drink, but at the end of the evening he very charmingly said, "I want to buy your drink," thinking I had a tab going or something, but I knew I was just gonna have the one, because temperate in all things.
Oh my god, that reminds me. Don't let me forget to tell you about my nutrition call. Mother of god.
But anyway, Mr. French. I met him in December, and we went on one or two dates before seguing into friends. I like hanging out with Monsieur French, though, because he's smart and interesting. The last time I saw him, it was spring, and we were at the same restaurant, but he was sitting outside, and with a woman. I didn't want to go out and say hello in case it made things weird with whomever he was with.
The time I saw him before that is a great story. We'd had a snowstorm here, pretty significant for the South, but all my Michigan friends would have laughed at it. But because there aren't salt trucks or whatever, we were all snowed in for days.
I remember the first day of the storm, waking up to snow just everywhere, work being canceled, and an email from a new person on OK Cupid. That person was Mr. Write. Because we were snowed in at our houses, we ended up Mr. Writing all day long, and into the night, and we were having a fantastic time. The next day, we tried to meet, but Mr. Write was quite literally snowed in--his car was stuck in the driveway. So he said, "Let's try to meet later once the snow's melted."
In the meantime, I had managed to get out of my driveway, although the roads were scary as blue potatoes. I just made that phrase up, and let's do what we can to get it sweeping the nation, shall we?
Anyway, since I was from Michigan and Mr. French is from Canada, we tossed our heads at the blue potato snow and said, "Let's meet at a bar!" So in the middle of, like, a Friday or something, we met at this dive bar and decided it'd be hilarious to drink outside in the snow and ice. With the sun on us, it wasn't bad.
So there we were, sitting outside in the snow at a dive bar, when this hot man walked by carrying groceries. I stopped talking to look at him, as he'd come to a complete standstill in the road, tilting his head at me. He had on a hat and sunglasses, but I still thought, "Is that...?"
It was Mr. Write! I'd never met him yet, but I knew, and he knew it was me because he saw a yellow Bug and hair.
So really that ended up being more a story about Mr. Write, but I was with Mr. French, so there you go.
The point is, it'd pretty much been all of 2016 that we hadn't seen each other, so I was all, How was your year, and he told me, and then I told him about mine, and godDAMMIT this has been a stupid fucking year. Any year your dog dies is gonna suck, but even beyond that. Jesus.
Anyway, we had a good time, and made plans to get together again, and in fact I told him he should meet Ned. Ned doesn't have any local men friends--all of his friends are back in Raleigh. I think he'd like Mr. French, and I never even kissed Mr. F, so really I think it'd be okay.
Speaking of Ned, he is the kind of person who constantly has an ache or a pain. Really. Constantly. One goes away and he gets another. So at his cookout, he was complaining about his neck, and I was very smug. Oh, you shoulda seen me.
"Ned, your problem is, you're unhappy with your life, and instead of facing your demons, you distract yourself, and as a result, all your pain comes out physically."
"Distract myself? What do you mean?" he smiled, hoisting his beer.
"Yeah, I have no idea what I mean," I said, hoisting a kitten.
Anyway, he called me yesterday during the workday. He went to the doctor, and it turns out he has a broken neck.
Goddammit.
Don't you hate it when you're wrong like that? Ohhhh I'd been soooooo smug. I had allll the answers. I was Dear Bitchy Abby.
Do you like how my first thought was about how I was wrong, and not MOTHER OF GOD, YOUR NECK IS BROKEN?
Oh, it's just a small fracture. He'll get over it. You know how if I had a broken neck, I'd have made zero big deal about it. It wouldn't be June's broken neck blog posts, volumes 1–46 or anything.
Biking. He thinks it happened when he was biking. And that's why I stay inside.
I had better go, as I've rambled at you for a thousand words now, but tomorrow. Don't let me forget to tell you about my nutrition call tomorrow.
Guess what I will forget to do tomorrow.
Cottoning to that,
June
